


The Prodigal Son Breaks.

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Series: Tumblr Drables [13]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: M/M, mind-break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:45:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr Fill for: DickTim Dark with a cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prodigal Son Breaks.

Dick struggles, eyes wide and bloodshot, mouth pulled into an animalistic snarl - he might be foaming at the lips as well, he is too gone to care - as he tries to free himself from the bindings securing his wrists to the concrete walls.

He’s hungry, so very hungry, and thirsty enough he thinks he might pass out…

… If not for the adrenaline coursing through his system at that moment. Urging, driving, and forcing him to fight back, to do anything and everything inn his power -and more- to stop the gruesome and nightmarish scene before him.

Because only in his nightmares - no, not even then, - could he ever dream he would see Bruce, their mentor, their father, do this.

Push Tim’s smaller, bruised body onto his back on the dirt soiled floor, ripping his clothes like some kind of animal, biting and licking and claiming the skin that should never, would never be his and Dick can feel how his wrist is about to snap and be dislocated, how his whole body burns feverishly.

And then Bruce is pulling grunts and whines of pain out of Tim’s dry, bruised lips. 

Dick roars like an animal, like a wounded monster being pulled and prodded to elicit a reaction. He snaps the bindings on his wrists and leaps as far as his wobbling legs will allow him to reach until he has both bloody arms wrapped around his baby Tim, his wounded little brother and one of his hands is caressing his hair as he trembles and the other is grabbing at the chains still hanging from his arms and wrapping them around Bruce’s neck and just pulling because thus is the least that monster that dared to make them love him like a father deserves and yes, he’s breaking their oath as he is breaking Bruce’s neck but… it was Bruce’s oath to begin with and Tim’s bruised face is hiding against his mostly dislocated shoulder and his sobs are so soft and child-like.

… and he just knows, he knows that Tim will never recover from this, will never be that strong, quirky and yet independent teenager that could make miracles happen with his determination alone.

But that’s okay because Dick will be there forever, he allowed this to happen, he was glad to let Tim pick the pieces of Bruce’s broken heart so he could just go around and be a hero on his own and never thought to check, to ask, to look for any signs that Tim was okay – Tim was different from him and Jason, he knew it by sight alone, Tim would always need different things that he and Jason ever did – that he was treated with the respect and love than he deserved.

No, he will dedicate his life from now on to protect Tim’s happiness – because Tim will be happy, he will make sure of it, even if he has to burn the world itself to the ground and recreate it to his liking – to care and love and be there forever.

This was his fault.

He will never let it happen again.

Tim’s soft sobs have quieted down slowly, his slender fingers holding onto Dick’s neck, his shoulder, his back, anywhere that might give him a sense of protection. Dick tightens his embrace on his fragile little brother, closing his eyes and breathing onto his sweaty and blood-mated hair.

Nothing will separate them now.

A sudden, sharp sting on the back of his neck seems to be the only warning he has before the world starts swimming before his eyes and Bruce’s corpse is raising from the ground, eyes glinting maliciously and all strength seems to flee Dick’s body while Tim is literally ripped away from his arms, a frightened whimper leaving those thin lips.

“No!” he cries, fingers growing heavy and still trying to reach his baby brother’s arms, his hand, anything.

“Good bye, old chump,” Bruce sneers, hand tight around Tim’s chin and raising his face to crush his lips in a possessive kiss.

Dick wants to scream but his vision becomes dark and his body falls heavily onto the ground.

When he is finally able to open his eyes again he is alone in his apartment, there is no sign of struggle and no evidence that, whatever happened the night before was nothing but a horrible nightmare.

Slowly, he gets out of bed and runs a tired hand through his hair.

A nightmare.

He opens his curtains lazily, unable to shake the feeling of oppression on his chest and maybe trying to forget Tim’s whimpers, Bruce’s harsh laughter, his own hand as he tries to kill the one he thought of as a second father.

Then his eyes land on the reddened marks of his wrists.

“Tim…” he whispers immediately, a red veil falling before his vision.

He leaves the apartment without even putting shoes on.

From the neighboring building a figure watches his mad race with a small, satisfied smile.

A teenager approaches the figure, face bruised, hair lank.

“I did what you wanted,” the teen whispers, French accent thick. “Please let me go home.”

“You won’t stay for the show, Marcel?” the figure asks, running thick fingers over the boy’s bruised cheek. “It will be amusing.”

The teen frowns, fright clear in his eyes.

“You said you’d let me go home, Dr. Elliot,” he whispers, throat hoarse. “That you’d give me back m’face and I’d go home.”

Dr. Thomas Elliot nods absently, hand reaching into his pocket to pull a small gun.

“I lied,” he shrugs, placing a bullet between the teen’s eyes.

Marcel Claude’s body – the body of a prostitute, a kid that didn’t know any better and just wanted to go home – falls to the ground with a soft, muted thud, his wide blue eyes unseeing in their death.

Dr. Elliot tsks.

“You would have appreciated it, Marcel,” he whispers, eyes going back to the streets where Mr. Grayson is now pulling his bike, teeth bared and foaming, eyes red-rimmed and wide. “All it took was a mild psychotropic, a little whore with his brother’s face and boom, the prodigal son turns on the father.”

Idly, he moved the teen’s head with the tip of his shoe, an amused smile on his lips.

“This time, Bruce will really have to choose between his most loved and his most loyal… interesting, huh?” 


End file.
